Tyrannical
The classmates around me conversed with one another, some grimacing, others whispering, certain individuals snickering over the stumbly teacher that had fallen over during a prior class. As usual, Mr. Stutton was late along with the sassy stoners and apathetic, misunderstood students. It appeared to me as a human science, how people in my particular age group naturally emit a constant and somewhat harmonious commotion across the authority absent area they inhabit. A girl behind me squealed with laughter, a guy named Mike beside me dropped his pencil and knocked over the entire desk in an attempt to pick it up. The body of students responded to the sudden noise with a pause of silence, a rude comment or two, and surely enough the noise commenced once again. They're all idiots, if you ask me. I try not to judge with such haste, but sometimes I just can't help myself. It's not fair really, and you never know what the kid beside you has gone through; how many times his dad hit him, how many loved siblings he may have lost, how many years it took until he finally felt accepted in this grim and frightening world. I never really had a problem fitting in, although I must admit, I keep to myself more than I probably should. I suppose it's a confidence issue, to be perfectly honest. Far too often, I witness relatively intelligent people open their loud mouths and say something stupid enough for me to lose all respect for them. I want to be respected, and as a result I learned to keep my mouth shut. Shakespeare said it best through Hamlet's character Polonious, "Give every man thy ear but few thy voice." I took that one to heart. It seemed to be exceptionally wise advice, even if it was spoken by a fag like Polonious. I noticed this one girl that sat diagonally across from me was wearing a pink mini-skirt. God bless the season of Spring. Northbound birds return to chirp, colourful flowers blossom, and all the chicks bust out the scantily clothes. I experienced an aesthetic nirvana as she bent across the desk to poke a hungover girl in front of her. My inevitable erection seemed to rise perfectly parrallel to the rising skin underneath the frilled, pink skirt. The erection reminded me of a time in grade seven when I was called to the front of the class while experiencing an unexplained and uncontrollable hardon. If only the teacher knew, I would have been saved a lot of embarassment. In light of the shameful memory, I decided to focus on something else while waiting for class to begin. Very soon I would discover that it was already too late. Just as the considerate though crossed my mind, a steel-toed boot cracked the classroom door open with alarming force. A kid from my english class stood in the doorway with a pump-action shotgun clutched within his blood-soaked hands. This had to be a dream. I must have fallen asleep while waiting for the punctually challenged teacher and now I was trapped in this surrealistic nightmare. A thunderous roar came out of the steel barrel and a thick, red mist exploded out of the back of Mike's head. The sensation of warm blood spraying against my face assured me this was no fucking nightmare. Instinctually I leaped out of my seat and knocked over a group of wooden desks for cover. Several classmates darted around the room screaming while others cowered and hid behind anything they could find nearby. Another deafening blast ripped across my head and the sound of concrete shattering was followed by a loud thud. I quickly snatched a tumbled chair by my side and hurled it over the scattered desks, hoping it would nail the motherfucker right in the head. Instead, the legs of the chair tangled around the shotgun and twisted the firearm from his grasp in a truly bizarre manner. Without hesitation, the killer dropped to one knee and reached for the snubnose revolver strapped to his right ankle. What better time than now? A surge of vengeful energy erupted throughout my body as I rammed across the various obstacles with unstoppable fury. I lashed out at the deranged demon of a man and proceeded to pound his lowered face. I thought I had the advantage until he finally pulled the gun out of it's holster and shot a searing hot bullet into my goddamn leg. I never would have imagined being shot would hurt so much. Sometimes in movies you see a guy get filled with bullets and then start fighting his nemesis immediately afterwards, as if it didn't even happen. Unfortunately, this was no dream, nor was it a fucking movie - the recently shot lead was so hot I could literally feel it burning my flesh from the inside. I cried out in agony and slammed my elbow onto the top of his head. The revolver shot out two more times and sulphurous gunsmoke wafted across my bleeding nose. Automatically I gagged and choked on blood that was seeping down my throat, deep crimson globs spurted out my mouth and on to my opponent's grinning face. I dropped to the floor, each pounding pulse sending a fresh wave of pain throughout my entire leg. This isn't my destiny. This isn't how it's supposed to be. I swiftly grabbed the shotgun laying by my wounded leg and cocked back the pump while staring straight into the eyes of the murderous menace. Once again, the shotgun boomed and the english class kid was sent flying backwards crying out his last pathetic noise. Books from shelves rained on the ground around him and a gleaming trickle of blood dripped from the tip of his nose and into the growing pool underneath his corpse. I wiped sweat and blood off my forehead with a torn sleeve and dropped the shotgun. Survivors stood up from their hiding spots, most of them were sobbing, and all of them were looking at me with curious faces. I looked down and realised I still had an erection.